


Late

by MistoElectra



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: M/M, POV Baze Malbus, chirrut wasn't born blind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 01:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9524657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistoElectra/pseuds/MistoElectra
Summary: He cannot get to him.It's too late.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bleu_bee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleu_bee/gifts).



_“I have been astonished that men could die martyrs_  
_for their religion--_  
 _I have shuddered at it,_  
 _I shudder no more._  
 _I could be martyred for my religion._  
 _Love is my religion_  
 _and I could die for that._  
 _I could die for you._  
 _My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet.”_

_~John Keats_

Baze’s faith is shaken the moment the Republic becomes the Empire. It begins to falter when the Jedi are slain, young and old.

He says nothing.

If Chirrut knows, he does a good job of keeping it to himself, which is odd given the younger man’s propensity for gabbling about anything that comes to his mind. Which is a lot. But Chirrut doesn’t mention it, although there’s the occasional glance that tells him that he suspects at least. He seems to realise though that there is nothing he can say which will help Baze with this struggle. It’s something he needs to get through himself in one way or another.

In the end, he doesn’t get too much time to dwell on it.

Jedha is old, and most who come are pilgrims, but it’s also a rich source of Kyber, and the Empire show interest in that, if nothing else. It is something that can be exploited, used, and if Baze didn’t hate them already, the way some of their forces linger around the city is enough to make his hair stand on end.

They will come for the Temple.

The Guardians may be in various stages of mourning and grief, but even they can see that. They are still immovable though. They may be monks, but they are also warriors, and they have all taken a vow to protect the Temple, to protect the Kyber crystals. Most will sooner die than break that oath. There is reluctance too; reluctance to make any hasty moves while the future is still unclear. A few have vanished, acolytes mainly who have fled in fear, but most are resolute.

Chirrut is one of the most resolute of all, and Baze both loves and hates him for it. The Temple has been their home since they were children, and while perhaps it had once been Baze who had been considered the most devout, Chirrut can easily claim that position now. He will not abandon the Temple, nor the Kyber, nor the city and its people, no matter how Baze suggests they might flee together into the night. It’s an argument he knows he can’t win, but he can’t help fantasizing nonetheless, dreaming of escaping to somewhere they might lead a peaceful life, where Chirrut can practice his forms and preach till he’s blue in the face and no one will care. A little bit of peace.

The stubbornness in Chirrut’s brown eyes tells him he won’t get that.

And when the imperial forces come, the fight begins.

At first it is easy. The troopers underestimate the strength of the Guardians and initially do not even bother with weapons. In those first few days it is too easy, and they take them down one by one. It boosts morale, if nothing else, but it will not remain so easy. The Empire has many soldiers, and not all so unarmed. When they return they come with blasters, with grenades and other forms of weaponry that turn the tide of the fight. The Guardians have lightbows, but compared to the sheer numbers of the Empire, it becomes all too evident all too quickly that the fight is hopeless.

In a brief reprieve in the fighting, Chirrut pulls him aside.

“Get the initiates and the acolytes out.”

His brown eyes are flashing with determination. The initiates and those acolytes still young to properly fight have been taking shelter in the archives along with the small number of elders too old and infirm to do so. Baze understands the idea. The Temple isn’t going to hold for too much longer. With their current weapons and food, they can last a week, maybe more, but not by much. What’s confusing him is the fact that Chirrut is telling _him_ to do it. Baze is a strong fighter, he’s a crack shot and he’s strong as well.

“Bu-“

“Take them out the back exit. Get them far away.”

There’s desperation in his voice and Baze wants to protest but the words die in his throat. One glance and he understands. He’s a strong fighter, and a good shot. They need to get the children out and they need someone who is capable of protecting them. The nearest town is at least a day and a half’s walk, possibly more given the number and age of those involved and it will be a rough journey. He’s the best they have for the job.

He nods.

In that moment, Chirrut grabs him by the front of his robes, pulling him down until their lips meet, rough and desperate and uncertain, because even though Chirrut whole heartedly believes in the Force, it doesn’t mean he isn’t still a little bit frightened. It’s possible that this kiss might be their last- although Baze pushes that thought harshly from his mind- and he savours it, clinging tightly until they have to part.

“May the Force be with you,” Chirrut murmurs against his lips as he pulls away, and then he’s gone, vanishing back into the recesses of the Temple.

***************

They make somewhat quicker pace than Baze has been expecting and arrive at the small town just after nightfall on the second day. He’s taken to carrying the younger children as much as he can, so there are two initiates in his arms, a third clinging to his back half asleep. The older acolytes help where they can, but most of them are barely more than children themselves, none yet adults.

The town is tiny compared to the city, but they are welcoming and more than happy to take in the children amongst the families already residing there. They won’t continue their training, but at least here they might be safer from the wrath of the Empire than they would have been in NiJedha. Reluctantly he lets them go, saying goodbye to each and every one before bidding his leave. It is difficult- he’s fond of them all, even the littlest and he hates to say goodbye- but it is necessary, and he needs to return to the city. There isn’t a moment to spare.

The Temple needs him.

Chirrut needs him.

**************

He makes double time on the way back, although if he’s not sure if that is due to his solitude, his urgency or a mixture of the two hastening his steps. From outside the city walls, he can see flickering light, and for a moment he thinks that they have managed the impossible, that they have defeated the Imperial forces and that one of the beacons has been lit. That is, until he realises that it is far too large and oddly shaped to be a beacon.

His heart stops as he realises that the Temple of the Kyber is burning.

He’s never moved so fast until this moment, pushing through crowds and there is another crowd, larger and harder to get through gathered at the square in front of the Temple. Surely they cannot be gathered just to watch it burn?

He is right.

He wishes he were wrong.

The throng is near impossible to push through, but he can see enough from his current position, hear the hushed silence as all eyes fall to the forces atop the steps. All eyes but his, his fall to the prone figure, beaten and bloodied and hunched at the feet of a trooper. Despite the blood, he can recognise the face, would recognise it anywhere. There are no other Guardians in sight, but the crimson stains on the marble and the smell- the smell of burnt flesh- tells him everything he needs to know. Relief fills him that Chirrut is still alive, but horror too, because the Empire has him, there is too much distance between them and _he cannot get to him._

“The Empire will not tolerate such acts of terrorism from its citizens. Let this be an example to you all.”

_He cannot get to him._

The voice of the commander chills him to the very bone. To call the Guardians terrorists is bizarre in itself, but the idea of making an example...

_He cannot get to him._

The sound of Chirrut being thrown down against the marble makes his blood boil and he struggles, pushing forward a few paces. To Chirrut’s credit, he makes no noise, but he doesn’t raise himself up either and that worries Baze. When his head wrenched upright by a grip on his close cut hair, the injuries on his face become more apparent, but Baze barely has time to notice them before another trooper is raising a jug of something. It’s unapparent what it is, but it’s steaming and Baze is reacting on autopilot, shoving desperately as he watches the jug tip, directed over his eyes...

_He cannot get to him._

Chirrut’s scream cuts through him like a knife, pained and excruciating, unbearably so, his body visibly convulsing, but his hands can’t reach his face from where they’re tied behind his back. The screams echo through the square, slicing through the silence.

_He cannot get to him._

The Imperials seem satisfied and Baze decides right then and there that he won’t rest until he’s killed every last _kriffing_ one of them. He continues to push, getting three quarters of the way through when the Imperials snort, and give his lover a push.

_He cannot get to him. It’s too late._

A push that sends him toppling down the Temple steps until he finally comes to a rest, face down, at the bottom, blood seeping across the marble.  He doesn’t move, but the Imperials do, storming down the steps, pausing to give a kick for good measure, and Baze takes the opportunity in the way they clear a space through the crowd to run to Chirrut, dropping by his side.

_It’s too late, but he gets to him._

Shaking hands undo the ties binding his hands, and then he’s gathering the younger man into his arms. His words are a babble of nonsense, begging Chirrut to respond to him, but he receives nothing. There is breath, at least, and a pulse. He can tell as much. Still, it is not so comforting. Not to mention, Chirrut’s eyes are swollen shut and seem to be beginning to blister.

He calls for help.

No one answers.

****************

There’s an old woman who lives in one of the back alleys a few streets over from the Temple. Chirrut had introduced them when they’d been children, telling him how she could cure and heal anything. She’d been old even then and Baze doesn’t even fully know if she’s still alive, but he’s desperate and willing to try anything to save the man in his arms.

Luckily, and perhaps almost unbelievably, she’s still alive and she’s still in the poky little house. She’s half deaf, but he doesn’t need to speak. From the moment she answers the door, she seems to know, ushering him inside and bolting the door behind him. The Imperials haven’t followed, but they can’t be too cautious, not in times like these.

What is more distressing is how she bans him from the room as she does her initial work. His fretting will not be conducive to healing, she tells him, before closing the door in his face. And so he paces, paces and paces and paces until he’s sure he’s going to wear a hole in the floor. It’s too quiet for his liking, leaving him with nothing to do but wallow in his own memory and think on how he had been too late. Perhaps if he’d pushed harder, moved faster, he could have gotten back in time to save Chirrut. If he’d refused to go in the first place, insisted one of the older acolytes make the journey instead.

It’s too late for what ifs, but that doesn’t stop them coming.

Hours pass, the night turns into day and although he’s exhausted, he forbids himself sleep. In previous years, he might have meditated, but not now. How can he? The Force, if it exists, has willed the slaughter of its followers, of children, and now it has willed this on Chirrut, one of its most devoted followers. He cannot believe in anything like that.

So he paces some more.

Finally, the door opens and he is ushered in.

Chirrut is a mess.

The robes are in a corner. Surprisingly whole, and they might even be salvageable, but he puts little thought on that now. The bed is small, but Chirrut looks even smaller in it. He’s on his side, bandages wrapped thickly around his chest and back. More around parts of his legs and arms, and a final one around his eyes.

He drops to his knees.

“Will he live?”

He barely recognises his own voice, raspy and strained and small, but it’s his, struggling to form words as he encases one of Chirrut’s hands in his own, pressing it to his forehead in a struggle not to weep.

“It is possible.”

It should be relieving, but the way she phrases it means it is also possible that he will not, and Baze cannot stand for any such uncertainty, not in this moment.

“He will take time to heal, and there are some wounds which may continue to trouble him long past this day. Infection may yet set in... There is considerable damage to his back and his eyes...”

“Yes?”

“I cannot be certain until the swelling goes down...but it is unlikely that he will ever regain use of them.”

They’ve blinded him.

That’s the Empire’s punishment.  They have blinded Chirrut, blinded his love. It is a devastating blow.

He will kill them for this.

**********************

After three days, the old woman removes the bandages around Chirrut’s eyes. He is grateful to see that the swelling has gone down, the blistering healed quicker than he had thought, but his heart sinks when she peels back his eyelid and he sees what is underneath. Where Chirrut’s eyes had previously been a deep brown, now there is only milky white, almost blue scarring and no pupil evident. Her prediction has been confirmed.

Blind.

The remainder of the bandages must stay on, although she lets him remain as she changes them, and he catches glimpses of scarring, slashes on his arms and legs and a horrific looking one on his back. He will recover, she says, and he will still have full range of movement, but his stamina may perhaps be affected, or at least his ability to stay upright.

After seven days, Chirrut wakes up. It’s all too brief, a momentary stirring and mumbling before he’s sinking into sleep, but at least now he’s relatively safe, and Baze sleeps a little easier for that.

The second time he wakes up, two days after the first time, is a lot more difficult.

It’s early morning and Baze is still dozing, or at least, he is until he’s disturbed by Chirrut shifting, a quiet groan of pain echoing from his lips. His words however, jolt Baze into awareness.

“B-Baze? Anyone...where am I?”

Baze is by his side in an instant, crouching beside the bed and speaking first to alert the other to his presence before taking him gently by the arms, one hand moving up to cup his cheek gently, tender and delicate.

“Hush, Chirrut, I’m here. It’s okay, I’m here. You’re safe, I’ve got you.”

Chirrut’s head twists a little in confusion, and Baze can see the growing panic in his expression, his breathing becoming more rapid and uncertain as he blinks, turns his head, blinks again and then rubs desperately at his eyes with his hands until Baze stops him.

“I can’t see...I can’t see...why can’t I see? Baze, why can’t I see?”

There’s little Baze can do but hug him close, hushing him softly and rocking him.

“I’m sorry...I’m so sorry Chirrut...I couldn’t get to you...I’m so sorry...”

He seems to remember now. He falls quiet, still against Baze’s chest and he says nothing. Eventually he falls back to sleep. The process repeats. He still says nothing, eyes staring into nothingness as Baze spoon feeds him soup. He needs to regain his strength, Baze mutters to himself more than anyone else. He reassures him that he got the children to safety, that they have families now who will be able to care for and protect them.

It is both a relief and a curse to hear him begin to pray again.

The prayer makes Baze want to scream, because he cannot understand how Chirrut can still believe in a power that willed him blind, and it hurts as well that it would seem that Chirrut would rather speak to it than to him. The most he says to him is that all is as the Force wills it, and he has to resist the urge to throw something.

“All is as the Force wills it.”

He snaps.

“How can you still believe that Chirrut? How can you be so calm and so trusting of something that willed you blind? That would will you hurt-“

“The Force is not fai-“

“The Force does not exist! The Force did not protect you. It did not save you, nor carry you from the Temple steps. I did! How can you be so ca-“

“I’m not calm.”

The venom and the anger and the pain in Chirrut’s voice takes him aback and he physically stumbles, bracing himself slightly against the wall. Chirrut’s head turns, as if seeking out his location to stare him down and his teeth are gritted, his face scrunched up.

“I’m scared, Baze.”

The dam bursts.

“I’m scared. Everything hurts. I cannot tell where I am. I am afraid because I don’t know what to do. I can barely walk for long, I cannot find my way around. Everything is alien to me. I am scared of what I will forget. I am scared that I will forget the look of the sunset from the Temple roof, the sight of the inscriptions on the Temple wall, my mother’s face...I am scared I will forget what _you_ look like...”

His voice cracks on the last part, and it takes a single stride for Baze to cross the room and gather him up in his arms, so small and fragile seeming. He takes Chirrut’s hands between his own, brushing away the lone tear that has escaped.

“You will not forget what I look like. Just because you cannot use your eyes does not mean you can’t see,” he murmurs and he raises Chirrut’s hand until they rest on his face. Slowly, his fingers dance across his skin, mapping it out, trailing over every part, running over the scar on his temple, even pausing to tweak half heartedly at his ears, and when he’s done, Chirrut folds into his embrace.

They hold each other through the night.

*********************************

As predicted, it’s a long recovery, but they manage it. The old woman is kind enough to allow them to stay in the rooms above her. It’s small and cramped, but manageable. They decorate sparsely so Chirrut has less things to trip on, and on one of Baze’s brief scavenging trips, he is able to recover a lightbow and a staff and cobbles together some old blasters into his own weapon. For defence, he tells himself.

True to the words, Chirrut is stubborn enough to recover all movement, and insists on practicing his forms as often as possible. He becomes accustomed to moving around and fighting without sight, and he’s actually rather good at it too.  He’s delighted when they find an old echo box in the marketplace, and once he’s figured out how to use it properly, it’s like he has a new lease of life. He practices and he practices and he practices and soon he’s as deadly as he was before, if not more so. He has his weaknesses though, and the pain from his back injury is enough that he often has to sit down to recover after long bouts of fighting. It’s a discomfort, but one that Chirrut bears remarkably well.

There’s no safety in being a Guardian of the Whills anymore, but it is a mantle that Chirrut refuses to give up.  He preaches on street corners, blending in with the beggars there and pleading alms for fortunes and other such tat that Baze doesn’t believe in.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t have the heart to stop him, and when a girl with a necklace of Kyber enters the market place, Baze realises that their lives are about to change all over again.

*****************************

On a beach on Scarif, Chirrut is out of reach before Baze can stop him, crossing the sand with his staff in his hands and a prayer on his lips. Blaster bolts singe the air, but none seem to hit their target, some almost bending around him as he moves slowly but surely. Baze calls for him but he does not answer.

_He cannot get to him._

He makes it to the switch.

_He cannot get to him._

“Chirrut! Come back!”

_He cannot get to him._

Chirrut smiles and begins to move. He doesn’t notice the grenade, but Baze does.

_He cannot get to him. It’s too late._

Chirrut is thrown across the sand and Baze is on his feet before the dust and smoke settles, ignoring the raging battle in favour of the man he loves, dropping to his side and gathering him in his arms just as he had done all those years ago.

_It’s too late but he gets to him._

Chirrut is bloodied and broken in his arms, breath stuttering, and yet he still manages to raise a hand to his face. He’s attempting to reassure him, and really, shouldn’t it be the other way around? This time, there is no old woman down a side street. There is no one. Chirrut dies in his arms and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

_Look for the Force and you will find me._

He hasn’t believed in the Force in years. For years, he’s placed his conviction in a good blaster, and more importantly, in Chirrut.  And now Chirrut is gone, but Baze repeats his prayer, the inverse of it that he has not uttered in a long time. He lifts his repeater cannon. He charges.

One, two, three, down.

A blaster bolt hits his shoulder. He grunts. He carries on.

Four, five.

Another blaster bolt. He’s struggling now, but he’s going to take out as many as he can.

A sixth goes down, but this one has a grenade and as he sinks to his knees, Baze turns his eyes back towards Chirrut. It’s somewhat comforting to think that Chirrut will be his last sight. He takes solace in that, at least, as the heat surrounds him.

He won’t be late this time.


End file.
